


In Another Life

by Halogalopaghost (Lartovio)



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Gen, One Shot, Portal Stan, Tumblr request, minor injury, portal ford, stan and ford are thick in the head
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:28:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27336433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lartovio/pseuds/Halogalopaghost
Summary: When Stanford sees a familiar face in a crowded bar between dimensions, instinct takes over. The instinct to punch his brother, that is.
Relationships: Portal Ford & Portal Stan, Stanley Pines & Stanford Pines
Comments: 20
Kudos: 136





	In Another Life

**Author's Note:**

> This was a tumblr prompt from Fallen-Gravity that got way out of hand because Portal!Stan lives in my head rent free. My portal Stan is inspired by busket's artwork on tumblr, you should go check it out!

Ford's first thought is panic. Fiddleford's words--not his Fiddleford, the one whose life he hadn't ruined--echo through his head. If he meets his own alternative universe self, both he and the other Stanford will cease to exist!

His relief is only momentary when he realizes he is not looking at a version of himself. As soon as he realizes it's Stanley, the panic doubles. Is his own twin safe to touch? Will he and his brother fade into nothing if this isn't _his_ Stanley? (And he knows it mustn't be, because his Stanley hates him. He pushed him into a portal over some child's squabble, he definitely wouldn't have come in after him.)

This Stanley, hunched over the bar, feels the eyes on his back. He turns and watches the crowd for a moment, smirking when he spots Stanford. He raises his glass, and turns right back to the bar.

Alright, what was that?

It happens too quickly for him to properly sequence the events, but the following things immediately take place: Stanford walks across the room and swings his first toward Stanley, who catches his fist in midair, but doesn't manage to stay on his barstool. They both hit the ground, a glass breaks, Stanford is the one who ends up punched in the face, and suddenly there's quite a few pairs of hands gripping the pair of them. Following the short tussle on the sticky bar floor, the identical strangers are kicked out onto the rainy street. 

Stanley gets up first, rubbing his wet behind and wincing. Ford stays put on the ground and pulls a dirty scrap of cloth out of his many pockets to dab the blood away from his nose.

"Which one are you?" Stan grumbles.

"Pardon me?"

"Which dimension are you from, dumbass?"

He blinks for a moment. Oh. Well, I'm from Dimension 46\', if my calculations are correct."

Stanley straightens out a knee-length leather coat that shimmers unnaturally when it catches the blue and red streetlights. He's older than Stanford remembers, obviously—near his own age of graying hair and lines around the eyes. He must be from one of the dimensions where the timelines operate more or less concurrently. His gray hair is slicked back into a ponytail, his face is covered in grime that's settled into hard wrinkles and scars on his face.

"I'm 57\'," he says with a dark chuckle. "Don't suppose you know how to get me home?"

Stanford shakes his head numbly. 

"Of course. You never do." Stanley pulls a wool cap over his head, turns around without another word, and starts walking away.

It takes a long moment for him to process what's just happened. He scrambles to his feet, ignoring the pain in his leg, and scrambles after him. "Wait!"

Stanley looks over his shoulder, almost annoyed, and takes a full sideways step away from him. He lets Stanford keep pace with him, though. "What?"

"What do you mean, I never do? Have you met me--or other versions of me--before?"

He shrugs. "Sure. You haven't?"

"No. Never."

“The wanted posters? I know you were on Lottocron Nine for a _while_.”

“I don’t recall seeing you.”

"Hmph. Leave it to you to even be a bigger criminal than I am. Look, Stanford, it's nice to see ya and all, but I gotta get movin'."

"W--what? You don't want to..." he trails off, staring at his boots. He isn't sure exactly what he wants, or what he expected to begin with. He just tried to punch the man a few minutes ago, why should he expect him to want to stick around?

"You're bleeding."

He rolls his eyes. "Oh geez, you don't say. You punched me in the nose, Stanley."

"No--uh, you're bleeding _again._ "

Ford looks up, then follows Stan's gaze back down to his own thigh. Oh. He is, indeed, bleeding. There's a shard of glass sticking out of his dark pants, now even darker with the stain of blood. Would you look at that.

Stanley stops in the street, finally, and throws his head back to groan. There's a thin, angry red scar across his throat. What has this Stanley been getting himself into? And why is he even here, in this transient multi-territorial pocket dimension, instead of where he belongs? Ford has too many questions to just let him go. As much as the long-brewing anger against his twin still burns in his chest, this not-quite-Stanley is as anomalous as anything he saw in Gravity Falls twenty-odd years ago. 

"Come on, I can patch you up."

The two of them walk several blocks in silence, Stan only turning around occasionally to see if Ford is still following. He finally stops in front of a seedy motel and herds him into a small, poorly lit room.

"Are you sure this is sanitary?"

Stan barks a laugh. "Your multiverse experience has been much cushier than mine if you're seriously asking me that."

Ford frowns, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. It's an odd shape to accommodate the many different types of beings the motel must cater to. Stan kneels down in front of him with a tattered first aid kit. It's well used and worn on the outside for sure, but the inside is organized and more or less sterile. He shucks the large leather coat, and for the first time, Stanford realizes his brother is missing an arm. He clamps a hand over his arm as a sick feeling settles in his stomach.

Stan looks between the horrified face and the stub of his left arm. "What, you just noticed? Losin' yer touch there, Sherlock."

"What happened?"

He tucks his head down between his shoulders while he rifles one-handed through the first aid kit. "I’m not here to swap life stories. We ain't anything but strangers to each other."

The anger previously smothered flares back to life. Stanford clenches his fists into the thin blankets. "Oh, are we? Did you still destroy my perpetual motion machine? Did you still lie about it? Did you still turn your back on me the _one_ time in our lives that I needed you?"

Stan's head snaps up, nostrils flared and eyes wide. "You want to play that game? You took that perpetual motion bullshit to Pa before you even gave me a chance to explain! You knew he already had my bags half-packed, and you told him anyway!" He stands up and puts his finger in Ford's face. "You ruined my life! And when I responded to your stupid postcard even though you never bothered to make sure I was alive before that, you tried to send me away again."

Ford's mouth hangs open in a gape as he realizes what should have been blatantly obvious. "You--you went through the portal."

"I dragged your sorry ass out of it and got sucked in for the effort," he hisses. "I waited in that nightmare dimension for as long as I could without starving to death, and you know what?"

"He didn't open the portal again," he whispers. 

Stan jabs the finger into Ford's chest. " _You_ didn't open it."

"You don't understand, Stanley, if that portal is opened again--"

"Yeah, I know." He straightens up and turns to the window. His one fist is clenched into a white-knuckle grasp. "End of the world, Bill Ci the All Seeing Eye, blah blah blah. So now I'm out here alone, trying to figure out how to get home. The difference between you an' me is that you have a physics degree. I don't know what the fuck's goin' on half the time I'm out here."

“Stanley, it wasn’t me. I’m not your Stanford.”

“You’re all the same.” His voice cracks.

The room is deathly silent. Stan’s broad-shouldered shadow falls over Stanford as he stands in front of the window. His hand hovers over the stump of his arm, just barely visible below the cuff of his t-shirt. 

“It was Cipher. Stupid triangle thought he caught _you_. The most fucked up part is that when he realized his mistake, he just let me go. He said that I wouldn’t be enough motivation for you to turn yourself over--you’d let me die before giving in to him. I already knew that, but--”

Ford squirms in his seat. He wants to say it wasn't true, that of course he wouldn’t wish Bill even on his worst enemies. But he can't say for sure. If Bill had this Stanley, this embittered, angry creature he had become, would he truly sacrifice everything he’s worked toward for the last two decades?

Stan sniffs. “Just keep yer mouth shut long enough for me to bandage that up, and leave me alone. Got it?”

“Yes...alright.”

He doesn’t mention Stanley’s shaking hand, he doesn’t comment on how adept he is at suturing with only one hand, nor does he ask how he developed that skill. Per Stan’s wishes, he says nothing. The moment the bandage is tied off, he stands and extends a hand out to Stanley.

He looks at it for a second, unimpressed, then gives him an awkward handshake. 

Ford clamps his hand around the other and levels his gaze on this Stanley. “I’m going to kill Cipher. When I do, your Stanford will bring you home.”

Stan winces like he’s been struck. “You don’t know that.”

Ford shakes his head. “No, I do. I’ll make sure the news reaches every corner of the multiverse, and your Stanford will bring you home. I know, because it’s what I would do.”

Stan’s eyes glimmer for just the slightest moment, and the next thing he knows, Ford’s been wrapped up in a hug. His eyes mist over immediately as he tries to remember the last time someone hugged him. Choking back tears desperately trying to escape, he wraps his arms around Stanley and tries to let himself relax into the embrace; tries to let himself believe he might be loved by this stranger.

It’s over in a flash, and Stan pushes him toward the door. But as it’s closing behind him, Ford swears he hears a few quiet words.

“Be safe, Sixer.”

**Author's Note:**

> And despite all this, Ford's instinct to punch his brother will rear its ugly head again...


End file.
